


Solitary Objects

by stardust_made



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:03:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are in Cornwall for the first time together. Sherlock remembers the previous three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solitary Objects

  
  
There’s a full moon, peeping through the open window, and John is transported back to some of his nights in the desert: miles and miles with no other source of light but the white shimmer coming from the sky. However, this is the only similarity between that experience and this one. Now he is snuggled—clean, naked and warm—under faintly scented covers. Next to him is a clean, naked and not-so-warm Sherlock, whose feet have just befriended John’s calves. They are in a remote guest house in Cornwall. The room is plain and tiny; their sturdy bed is nothing short of heavenly to John.    


They are both very tired, yet neither can sleep. Sherlock’s wired brain always needs time to slow down after the conclusion of a case, and John won't go to sleep before Sherlock has. So they’re just lying down, facing each other, and waiting for nature to take its course. Thankfully, by the time they paid for the room Sherlock was through with the talking phase. This is the first time they’ve been away on a case since they got together, but John hopes his observations on Sherlock’s patterns are still applicable. According to them Sherlock should drop off in the next half hour. The complete silence and the darkness have already made his shoulders relax. John’s been running his fingers sporadically through Sherlock’s hair, and that’s helped, too.

Up close at moonlight Sherlock’s face looks designed to be watched in such otherworldly setting. Prolonged exposure has finally immuned John against Sherlock’s striking features and they don’t give him an inward pause every time, like they used to. But John’s still in perpetual wonderment at the details: the thin, almost translucent eyelashes with their upward wave; the perfect slope between the nose and the curved tip of the upper lip. John wonders if he would ever grow numb to Sherlock’s remarkable face and remembers the famous quote: _Beauty is in the eye of the beholder_. John hopes his eye will never tire or stray, or, indeed, let Sherlock out of sight in years to come. 

Sherlock’s own eyes have been closed for some minutes, but he is still thinking—John could almost feel the electrical impulses produced by his brain. He scratches Sherlock’s scalp lightly, then smiles; he imagines extracting the thoughts from that busy head. Vibrant, elusive and glowingly silver, like the rays of moonlight itself, John would twine them around his fingers as if they were Sherlock’s curls. 

God, he’s so, so tired and hazy.

Sherlock’s eyelids start trembling and just like that John suddenly picks up this isn’t about the case. His smile dwindles. He moves his head a bit nearer, unconsciously seeking a better reception to hear Sherlock’s thoughts. Naturally that isn’t possible, so John has to resort to a more practical approach.

“What are you thinking about?” he whispers.

Sherlock doesn’t open his eyes but takes a breath and softly replies.

“Nothing important.”

“Tell me.”

Sherlock keeps his eyes shut and his face doesn’t change. At length he says, “This is the fourth time I’ve come to Cornwall in the last ten years and every time I’ve had to stay and spend the night.”

John waits. He has a vague sense about where this might be going and wonders if he should say anything. If he doesn’t, Sherlock could get irritated that John needs everything spelt out for him. But if he does speak, Sherlock could feel too exposed. Not to mention that John could be wrong. _It isn’t easy_ , echoes through his mind—a thought that’s not a frequent visitor, but not a stranger, either. It isn’t easy being the only one to orbit this extraordinary man. 

John decides to keep silent, his hand turning to a lighter caress. His instinct proves right when Sherlock speaks again.

“The second time it was freezing. I’d jumped on the train without my coat, but it was important I checked the brickwork on the south side of the house as soon as possible. I’ll tell you about it one day. It was a brilliant case—I was chasing a false lead to the very end. The weather was foul. I was lucky I found some cash in my pocket.”

Sherlock swallows and John suppresses an urge to drag him closer; he prompts instead: “Go on.”

“It took me ages to find a local Bed and Breakfast to stay for the night.” 

The pause is very long this time and John begins to wonder if Sherlock hasn't decided he’d shared enough. Sherlock’s voice almost startles him.

“They had to call a doctor. They couldn’t wake me up—I’d not come down by three on the next day and—“ 

Sherlock halts, hesitates and finishes evenly.

“I had a fever. Developed pneumonia later.”

 _  
I mustn’t grab him, I mustn’t even slow my hand, mustn’t change my breathing, mustn’t, mustn’t   
_   
, John orders himself furiously, while emotion threatens to throw him about like a stick in a storm. He speaks very softly, afraid anything louder would frighten Sherlock out of his confession.

“Was it bad?”

Sherlock nods minutely.

“What about the last time you were here?” John asks, desperate to get both of their minds off the incident. Only to curse himself straight away: This isn’t about the pneumonia, this isn’t about Cornwall…

“I wasn’t sick then. Just spent the night.”

The contours of Sherlock’s eyelids begin moving as if they’re falling inward—John must be seeing things. And not just beauty, John realizes. _I can see_ everything _in you,_ he thinks _. I am your beholder_. 

When Sherlock’s low rumble fills the space next, it sounds like it’s coming from an old wine-cellar.

“I was still smoking then. I was _dying_ for a cigarette, but there were no open shops in a radius of five miles, and I couldn't go to the owner, he...didn’t like me very much. He and his wife had just had a fight, he’d re-mortgaged the property without telling her. They didn’t smoke anyway. It was very late…” The last bit is inconsequential and Sherlock’s voice has trailed off with it. John doubts Sherlock is thinking about the cigarettes anymore or about what he is saying.

Sherlock’s jaw clenches and his eyelids finally seem to collapse.

“I couldn’t _stop_ , John. I tried talking to myself, but it felt—It didn’t feel good. I thought it’d be fine, I’d done it in London, I lived by myself then...but it wasn’t fine at all.”

John can’t bear keeping away any longer. He wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock opens his eyes with a snap—for a second they look right into each other. Then John moves to press his forehead against Sherlock’s. At last Sherlock shuffles forward, too, in a bashful search for contact. 

They stay like that for a while, John’s mouth empty of coherent speech. He wants to say something meaningful, some proper serious words. He’s never been one for grand declarations and is now stumped at the force with which he wants to _swear_ to Sherlock that he would never, ever have to be alone again, that John would never let him catch as much as a common cold, that John would never allow the threat of madness near him. That John would always be there, in sickness and in health…None of this comes out: fruitless words, for they are neither true, as much as John wishes that they were, nor could they make his resolve any stronger—to _try_ and do those things, to be those things for Sherlock.

In a few moments Sherlock pulls back and mutters, “I’m all right _now_.”His tone has the slightest implication that John’s tiptoeing on the edge of idiocy, but John knows better. “Good,” he replies shortly and doesn’t let go. Sherlock puts his forehead back against John’s and stills. Just when John begins to track the placid rhythm of his chest, Sherlock pulls back again and sniffs the air.

“What’s that smell?”

“Hm? Oh, it’s the cherry tree,” John murmurs.

A big cherry tree has its majestic crown in full blossom right outside their window. Despite his tiredness John had noticed its scent as soon as they’d approached the house. He took advantage of the unusually warm weather to leave the window ajar—his grandfather used to say that trees and flowers smelled stronger in the evening.

Sherlock stretches fully in John’s hands to lift his head and look up at the window. When his body folds back, it’s somehow slid lower and Sherlock’s head is nestled under John’s chin. A cool thigh slides between John’s legs. John holds Sherlock, hushed and grateful to be able to do just that. Myriad of thoughts illuminate his mind like fireflies, until one by one they are extinguished by Sherlock’s even breathing. 

***

John is kept behind in a pleasant exchange with the owners of the guest house. When he steps outside, he finds Sherlock standing under the cherry tree—even more magnificent in broad daylight—and looking up through the crown. Some white petals have fallen into his hair. John watches him lower his head and reach up for a thin branch, heavy in white, to hook his index finger onto it. Sherlock draws it downward to place the blossoms right under his nose and sniffs experimentally. John wonders if his eyes have closed--he sees only the outline of Sherlock's right cheekbone, but the last thing John would do at the moment is move.

Sherlock breathes in again and this time his upper body inflates slowly and fully. For a long moment he freezes completely; he extends his hand to return the branch to its previous position and only then carefully lets go of it.

John clears his throat.

“Ready?”

Sherlock swivels in his spot and looks at John, his face indescribable—John could always call it only _Sherlock_ ’s face. Something about it bursts a bubble of tenderness in John’s chest and he makes a step forward, smiling and pointing.

“You’ve got petals in your hair.”

Without changing his position or averting his gaze from John’s, Sherlock raises a hand and hooks his finger on a branch again, pulling it all the way down to his shoulder. He holds it in suspension for a few seconds and then releases it abruptly. There’s a whooshing sound and a big cloud of white petals sprinkle all over him. Sherlock’s mouth twitches and his eyes shine at John.

“Ready.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my fantastic beta [](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/profile)[**disastrolabe**](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/)'s birthday. (So unbetaed—apologies for any the mistake or roughness of text.) Read the Russian translation [over here](http://www.diary.ru/~sherlockbbc/p169133135.htm).


End file.
